


What A Privilege It Is To Love

by allonsy_gabriel



Series: Another 51 [21]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Answer: No, Attempt at Humor, Aziraphale is a Mess (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Italics, Liberal use of the fuck word, Love Confessions, M/M, Miscommunication, Pining, Requited Love, crowley is a drama queen, gOD would you two just Talk To Each Other, so many italics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-09 10:23:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20993249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsy_gabriel/pseuds/allonsy_gabriel
Summary: Life, it seemed, had decided that its ongoing joke that used Crowley’s own personal torment as the punchline—a demon falls in love with an angel, how fucking hilarious—was too good to end, and so instead of Aziraphale confessing his undying love for Crowley in a passionate and embarrassingly tender way, the two of them had fallen back into this endless, wonderful, exhausting, incredible, painful routine.An endless stream of days, all falling into the same pattern.Wake up. Get dressed. Scare plants. Cause traffic delays by turning all the stop signs in London upside down. Call Aziraphale. Visit Aziraphale. Get dinner with Aziraphale. Go see Ian McKellan’s new stage show with Aziraphale. Wonder how he could go see Ian McKellan’s new stage show with Aziraphale without the ridiculous angel getting the fucking hint. Drink with Aziraphale. Go home. Sleep.Wash, rinse, repeat, day after day after day after day after day after—Anyway.





	What A Privilege It Is To Love

**Author's Note:**

> this is a Mess omg

Wake up. Get dressed. Scare plants. Loiter menacingly. Call Aziraphale. Visit Aziraphale. Get dinner with Aziraphale. Drink with Aziraphale. Go home. Sleep. Wake up. Get dressed. Scare plants. Glue coins to the pavement. Show up to the bookshop unannounced. Get dinner with Aziraphale. Drink with Aziraphale. Go home. Sleep. Wake up. Don’t get dressed. Create a new chain email scam. Scare plants. Get drunk. Call Aziraphale. Sober up. Visit Aziraphale. Order take out with Aziraphale. Drink with Aziraphale. Go home. Sleep. Wake up—

Crowley was going to slam his head against the  _ bloody _ wall.

Armageddon had failed. They’d stopped the apocalypse—or, at least, had been  _ stopping-the-apocalypse- _ adjacent. Aziraphale had  _ spent the night at Crowley’s flat. _ Where Crowley  _ lived _ . They’d  _ swapped bodies _ . They’d had lunch, which had bled into dinner, which was followed by the angel asking Crowley if he fancied a nightcap, and then Crowley  _ knew _ , he  _ knew _ that it was all going to come to a head, that the two of them were finally going to  _ say it _ , to make it  _ official _ , to put it in words— _ their side _ .

But  _ no. _

Nope.

Nada.

_ Zilch _ .

Life, it seemed, had decided that its ongoing joke that used Crowley’s own personal torment as the punchline— _ a demon falls in love with an angel, how  _ ** _fucking_ ** _ hilarious _ —was too good to end, and so instead of Aziraphale confessing his undying love for Crowley in a passionate and embarrassingly tender way, the two of them had fallen back into this endless, wonderful, exhausting, incredible,  _ painful _ routine.

An endless stream of days, all falling into the same pattern.

Wake up. Get dressed. Scare plants. Cause traffic delays by turning all the stop signs in London upside down. Call Aziraphale. Visit Aziraphale. Get dinner with Aziraphale. Go see Ian McKellan’s new stage show with Aziraphale. Wonder how he could  _ go see Ian McKellan’s new stage show with Aziraphale _ without the ridiculous angel  _ getting the fucking hint _ . Drink with Aziraphale. Go home. Sleep.

Wash, rinse, repeat, day after day after day after  _ day after day after _ —

Anyway.

It wasn’t as if Crowley was  _ unhappy _ with the new parameters of their Arrangement. Actually, he was  _ over-fucking-joyed _ with the opportunity to see the angel ( _ the  _ angel, not  _ his  _ angel, no,  _ bad demon subconscious _ ) every day.

He just wished…

He’d thought things might, finally,  _ change _ . He thought, maybe,  _ just fucking maybe _ , the universe would reward his good behaviour (like, oh, I dunno,  _ saving the fucking planet _ , you’re welcome, universe) by allowing a particular golden-haired angel to  _ confess his bloody feelings _ .

Because it wasn’t as if Aziraphale didn’t love Crowley. No, Crowley was a bit of an idiot, but he wasn’t  _ that  _ much of an idiot. No one said someone’s name like that, no one  _ looked  _ at someone like that, no one agreed to  _ raise a child  _ with someone unless there was some love involved.

He just wished his lovely, stupid angel would  _ admit it _ .

Honestly. What was the worst that could happen? Someone could try and kill him? Oh, wait, no,  _ they’d already fucking tried that one _ . And it wasn’t like Aziraphale was going to Fall—no, if they’d made it this far with the angel’s halo intact, sure a little bit of  _ love  _ wasn’t going to tip the balance.

But Aziraphale didn’t say a thing, and Crowley sure as somewhere wasn’t going to do it, so instead they fell into their new normal, and Crowley just occasionally felt the overwhelming urge to put his own head down the garbage disposal and flip the  _ blessed switch _ .

“Crowley, dear, are you quite alright?” Aziraphale asked, shaking Crowley from his reverie.

“Uh,” the demon replied intelligently. “Yeah. I’m good. Fine. Hunky-dory.” Crowley smiled. “Some might even say I’m  _ tickety-boo _ .”

Aziraphale didn’t look impressed. “You know,” he began, “I don’t think I’ve ever described anything as tickety-boo unless things were not, in fact, tickety-boo.”

Crowley glared at him. “Don’t try and psychoanalyze me, angel,” he said. “It’s a deep, dark hole and you  _ don’t _ want to go there.”

“Oh, I  _ do _ love the Addam’s family—”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley interrupted. “Angel, please. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”

“Oh, I hardly think I’m capable of that,” Aziraphale replied. “I’ve found that loving someone involves a great deal of worrying about them.”

Crowley choked on his scotch.

“I’m sorry,” he sputtered after a moment. “Did you—what did you just say?”

“Loving someone typically involves worrying about them, my dear,” Aziraphale said casually, as if he hadn’t just turned Crowley’s brain into soup.

“Yeah, alright, cool,” the demon said, clearing his throat. “I, erm. That makes loads of sense. Totally.”

“Crowley…”

“Huh?” Crowley asked. “What’s, uh—yes, angel?”

“You know, for a demon, you’re rather terrible at lying, dear.”

“‘M a rather terrible demon, really,” Crowley mumbled.

_ Loving someone involves a great deal of worrying. _

_ Loving someone. _

_ Love. _

“Maybe so,” Aziraphale conceded. “Then again, I’m a rather terrible angel. We’re quite the pair.”

“ _ Ngk _ .” 

“Really, Crowley, this isn’t getting us anywhere,” the angel insisted.

“That’s the thing, isn’t it?” Crowley finally said, throwing his hands in the air. “We—you— _ six-thousand bloody years _ , and not a single word, but you—you can’t just— _ Aziraphale _ !”

The angel furrowed his brows. “Is this about—Crowley, is this about me saying I love you?”

“ _ Is this about _ —yes! Yes, Aziraphale, it is! What the  _ bloody fuck else  _ would this be about?!”

“Well, we  _ have  _ been together for a few months— _ really _ together, that is. I  _ suppose  _ you could say we’ve been together since 1192, if you’re counting the Arrangement,” the angel explained. “It was bound to happen  _ sometime _ —”

“ _ Eleven-ninety-two?!” _

“Yes?” Aziraphale said, but he sounded rather unsure of himself. “Are we—I mean, I can see why you wouldn’t want to consider that the beginning of our relationship, really. We did tend to orbit each other even before that.”

“ _ The beginning of our _ —Aziraphale. Angel. Do you mean to tell me that you think—that we’ve—you and me—we’re—”

“Courting,” Aziraphale said easily. “Obviously. I mean, Crowley, darling, we went and saw Ian McKellan’s new stage show the other evening, we’ve gone on dates to the Ritz almost every night for the past four months, we—” The angel’s eyes suddenly widened. “Are you—are we… not?”

Crowley blinked at him for a moment. “Courting,” he finally repeated. “We— _ courting _ .”

The angel looked mortified, now, and there was something oddly shiny about his eyes. “Oh, dear,” he murmured, “Crowley I—I’m so sorry, I never meant to assume, I just—well, I thought, given our feelings for each other, and the fact that we’ve recently become… _ unemployed _ , that we were—well, you know… but if you—if you  _ don’t  _ wish to be in a relationship, then I—I’m so  _ sorry _ —”

He was crying, Crowley realised, his thoughts coming from somewhere around a meter to the right of his head. Aziraphale was crying because—

“Wait!” Crowley shouted, feeling as if he’d been shoved unceremoniously back into his body. “Wait, angel, I—shit, we— _ I love you too _ .”

“Of course you do, you old silly,” Aziraphale said, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. “I do believe you have since I told you I gave away my sword.”

“Then why did you never— _ you never said anything _ !”

“I didn’t think I had to!” Aziraphale replied. “I thought it was perfectly obvious!”

Crowley scoffed. “How?” he asked. “We’ve been—the same bloody thing as always—every day—and nothing ever—”

“ _ I _ thought you  _ liked  _ it!” Aziraphale argued. “You never said anything—”

“I didn’t want to—” Crowley’s voice broke. “I didn’t want to  _ go too fast _ , angel.”

He was staring at his hands, unable to meet the angel’s eyes, and so was surprised when he felt a pair of warm, strong arms wrap around him.

“Oh, my  _ dear _ ,” Aziraphale said quietly. “You’d think after 6,000 years we’d be a bit better at this whole bothersome  _ communication _ thing.”

Crowley chuckled, the sound muffled by Aziraphale’s ancient, frumpy coat.

It smelled of cocoa, and old paper, and ozone, and the angel’s cologne.

“You know,” the demon muttered. “Usually people in relationships are more, y’know. Affectionate.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. “I thought perhaps you simply weren’t fond of physical contact, and I thought it terribly rude to ask.”

Crowley laughed again, pressing his face into the crook of the angel’s neck.

“We—we’re ridiculous, angel. You know that?”

“I rather think I do, darling,” Aziraphale replied. “I rather think I do.”

**Author's Note:**

> tell me what you think!!!


End file.
